


This Summer's Gonna Hurt

by gackt_gratia



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mild S&M, Obscured watersport, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 18:29:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4845833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gackt_gratia/pseuds/gackt_gratia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya noticed it when they were all in Barcelona. The mission was a success. For once, there was no explosion, no bullets shot. The only casualty was Napoleon who limped the morning. The next time it happened, it was one in the morning. It was Mr. Waverly, the elderly British which was also their commanding officer. Later on the day, almost noon, Mr. Waverly was nowhere to be seen and Solo was back to his exasperating self. They were speaking cryptically and the Russian simply did not like secrets, not when the secret involved the assigned team and the mission, especially Napoleon and Napoleon’s obscure task because that mean he was not trusted. It hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Summer's Gonna Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This is written for a kink prompt at kinkfromuncle, [Illya/ Gaby/Napoleon, bad BDSM, subdrop, aftercare](http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=456064#cmt456064). The OP anon asked for an OT3 subdrop and aftercare but I failed and I write this piece instead. I think I do not cover the sub drop that extensively and please ignore all the details that I wrote in this fiction. Mind you this is fiction. I do not think a healthy and safe S/M play should last as long as what I have wrote here.
> 
> 2\. Special thanks to Naaja who had supported me and cheered me up whenever I am slacking and slowing down. She is the one who feeds and keeps my bunnies happy and hopping.
> 
> 3\. I totally fail on normal sex scene...
> 
> 4\. Unbetaed, spell-checked by Office 365

 

***

Illya noticed it when they were all in Barcelona. They were after an accountant whom was suspected to be in charge of handling some bank accounts that were covers for money laundering. The money then went to the supporters of Neo-Nazism.  
  
Their mission there was to track the said accountant and gathered information and evidence on which accounts that would lead them to the said neo-Nazism supporter. It was a simple mission. Waverly briefed them and Napoleon was the one to make contact. Illya and Gaby were the support in case things went awry.  
  
The mission was a success. For once, there was no explosion, no bullets shot. The only casualty was Napoleon who limped the morning after which he easily dismissed as nothing and had turned the table to irritate Illya when the Russian had asked about it.  
  
***  
The next time it happened, it had made the Russian agent frowned for the rest of the day. He ignored Napoleon’s whining as he mulled over the scene he had accidentally stumbled upon.  
  
It was one in the morning. Illya knew from his radio that the cowboy had returned. He waited for thirty minutes, an hour then when it stretched to the second hour and Napoleon failed to report in to both Gaby and him as was usual, he decided to check on his fellow agent.  
  
Illya took the stairs. Napoleon’s room was two floors up from Gaby and his. They had once again posed as a couple of tourist whilst Napoleon would be the one to make contact with the mark. The said role once again fell to the American agent since the mark was a frequent attendee of a certain gentlemen club during which special performance was being held.  
  
Illya did not bother to knock instead he picked the lock. He reasoned there might be a surprise waiting for him if the cowboy did not report in after he finished his mission. What kind of surprise, he did not know but one had to assume the worst, best be prepared than be sorry later. He silently opened the door and went in with his gun drawn and ready. He walked quietly into the bedroom which was separated from the guestroom only to be met with another end of gun aimed at him steadily.  
  
“Mr. Kuryakin, good morning. Feeling a bit insomniac?”  
  
It was Mr. Waverly, the elderly British which was also their commanding officer. He was sitting against the bed’s headboard, still in his three piece suit minus the jacket. Sprawled near to his thigh was a lump of body he assumed as Napoleon. The American agent kept sleeping, laid on his front with the hotel’s sheet and comforter tucked upon his body, leaving only tufts black hair visible.  
  
To say Illya was surprised was understatement. For some seconds he did not move but he saw Mr. Waverly put the safety back on and put the gun away. He did not alarmed nor disturbed by Illya’s presence. He just continued to do what he was doing before being interrupted, back to reading reports. He seemed oblivious to the body beside him but when the American agent shifted minutely and seemed to pull on something as he groaned softly as if in pain, the elderly British hand automatically stroke the black strands gently, pacifying the man who is now leaning to the said hand, without even looking away from his report.  
  
It was a strange tableau and Illya felt a jolt of hurt mixed with envy. He lowered the gun, tuck it away but he clenched his left hand so it would not betray his agitation. It was better that than to acknowledge the unknown feeling he was feeling right now. It was a mixture of no small amount of surprise but at the same time he felt the sharp tinge of jealousy and a hot rage of possessiveness as well as a sly of hurt and betrayal wedged close to his heart. He needed to leave but he could not turn away from the sight before him.  
  
“Mr. Kuryakin, anything I can help with?  
  
Waverly had placated the sleeping man beside him and now was staring at Illya steadily. His voice betrayed nothing of his emotion.  
Illya slowly tore his sight away from his still sleeping partner and back to the British man. Mr. Waverly was regarding him in a neutral but openly, seeming like genuinely waiting him to ask the questions. He swallowed once.  
  
“Solo?”  
  
Illya knew his English was better than other Russian agents even if he was not as eloquent as Gaby or Napoleon. But now he could not think of what he wanted to ask. He was still confused with everything and he just croaked out hoarsely the name of a man he did not whether he despised or what.  
  
Waverly thankfully did not comment anything and let the awkwardness of the question slide away.  
  
“Mr. Solo here is feeling a bit under the weather so I assist him to pass the storm.”  
  
Illya got the metaphor even if he did not understand how Napoleon was being under weather when before he was just fine. He said nothing but his eyes took note on the bowl of half eaten fruit with melted chocolate sauce, a roll of bandage and the room smelt a bit like antiseptic. There were also bottles of empty mineral water in the bin. The cowboy’s suit pants and jackets were neatly draped on the back of the study chair. He assumed the American was naked beneath the sheets but he did not know for sure if he wanted to know or not, not to mention the conflicted emotion it might evoke as his mind supplied the imagination of what had happened that the state of nudity was necessary.  
  
“Mr. Kuryakin, dawn is approaching. May I suggest for us to retire and I believe, our dear Mr. Solo also need his rest. If you do not have any other question, that is.”  
  
Illya shook his head. He turned and exited the room as quietly as he came. If Waverly saw the clenched jaw and the mute tension radiated from the huge Russian agent, he had wisely not to comment on it.  
  
Later on the day, almost noon, Mr. Waverly was nowhere to be seen and Solo was back to his exasperating self even if his stance was tense and cautious, as if he was hurt somewhere in his back. Illya had the urge to ask Napoleon about yesterday's mission, about what happened after the mission and most importantly he wanted to ask about Waverly and him but he said nothing. He let the ex-CIA agent narrated about yesterday's adventure which had caused him large bruise on his back under his shirt and vest hence the awkward stance and the time off given by their supervisor.  
  
His question went unanswered for some time.  But Illya did not forget. He now paid more attention to Mr. Waverly and the ex-thief but after several missions, he still did not see any actions between Mr. Waverly and Napoleon that had indicated they were closer than was apparent. There were times when he wondered if he was merely dreaming up that scene or perhaps he was sleepwalking, not that he ever slept walk. So he kept his musing in silence, after all Napoleon was good, great even in his expertise. He could easily fool him. Mr. Waverly on the other hand, whilst polite and mild-mannered compared to his Russian handler, Oleg, was a veteran in this game. He could easily read Oleg’s intention and mood but this British ex-MI6 agent was even harder than Napoleon to be read.  
  
***  
  
This time though, Illya caught on something. They were in one of U.N.C.L.E safe houses where they were after finishing up the last mission. The safe house was equipped by a telephone line and attached to the receiver is a speaker box. Mr. Waverly had rung and he had briefed them on the upcoming mission. He stated the urgency of this seemingly simple mission.  
  
The mission is a reminiscence of the last mission where Napoleon was being weird and Mr. Waverly was paying more attention to the said CIA agent than was usual. It was the standard tailing the mark, make contact with the mark then extract the information from the mark so that the other agents might get the mission done.  
  
“So gentlemen, lady that was your mission. Any questions?”  
  
“No so far, Mr. Waverly. I am just bored to act as Illya’s spouse again.” Gaby said.  
  
The statement had made Napoleon laughed in delight whilst the young German mechanic to smile cheekily.  
  
“Ms. Teller, while I do not know whether Mr. Kuryakin feels the same or not, but I have the utmost confidence that the both of you are able to pose as a pair of newlywed who would enjoy the festival in Venice while Mr. Solo cover will be a man looking for a different kind of paramour.”  
  
Gaby snorted whilst Napoleon was still smirking behind his scotch glass. Illy, though, he glared at Gaby and her blatant dismissal of the mission. He wondered how he came to be stuck with the young German mechanic who had no professional training in espionage and with a willful CIA-recruited agent whose abilities were honed during time of thievery.  
  
“I have no objection, Mr. Waverly.”  
  
“Very well, Mr. Kuryakin. I am pleased to hear that. Then, Mr. Solo?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Would you like me to arrange the usual after the mission?”  
  
Napoleon was silent for a moment as he studied the dossier on his map. He seemed to think on it, before he answered, “That will be wise, Sir. Thank you for the offer. I am indebted of your care.”  
  
Waverly chuckled across the line even if it was masked by some statics buzz. “I take care of my agents well, Mr. Solo.” Illya heard the chuckle sounded not happy but more of irony laced one.  
  
The comment seemed to amuse Napoleon as he smiled, “Well, still I consider it an improvement from CIA’s standard, Sir.”  
Gaby had sauntered to the kitchen for helping herself with some snacks but Illya stayed there and unknowingly, his left hand started to tick but he clenched it around the map’s edge. There was nothing wrong of those two conversations but he could not help to wonder that there was something that they mutually understood and no one else. They were speaking cryptically and the Russian simply did not like secrets, not when the secret involved the assigned team and the mission, especially Napoleon and Napoleon’s obscure task because that mean he was not trusted. It hurt.  
  
***  
  
It was Napoleon’s fifth time to venture in narrow streets in Venice. For him, this city was beautiful especially at night when the shadows played with the lights. During festival, the night was even more enticing, vigorous music among laughter of the gathered hedonists, various splash of color blended between shadows and light. Truly a magical sinful city which teased Napoleon and his control to submerge among the crowds and practiced his excellent skill and speed of hand and eye coordination while at the same time, being pressed among delicious bodies.  
  
Today though, Napoleon sadfully could not indulge in the fete. He was a man on mission. He had been in Venice for some weeks. He had been here earlier than Gaby or Illya so he could track down his mark, the beautiful and alluring Contessa Tatiana Salvatore. The contessa was tied to old money of Rubano who had played his part during the World War II. It was rumored that the contessa had killed his husband, the late master of Salvatore house, a rich clan for owning several abroad mines and oil rigs, then somehow controlled the Salvatore money for her clan Nazi patriotism.  
  
The contessa had a very specific individual indulgent time. She was a regular patron of Mascherina della Farfalla, a specialized club for women who shared the same taste with her. It was strictly member only and female patrons only. There were males but the males were all needed to pass the initiation time on which they were carefully selected to fit into a “plaything” of these women.  
Napoleon had passed the initiation time and had for few weeks become the regular male patron of the said club. He had played with various women but he did not approach The Queen. Sometimes, he saw her watching during his public session but the contessa never approached him. Most of the time the contessa did not even seem interested on him. This apparent lack of knowledge had him questioned his method.  
  
Napoleon thought to lure the Queen to him instead of he directly approached the contessa. Afterall, she seemed to be respected among these dominant women and was regarded as the alpha so it would be well to catch her interest and let her trap him whilst it was him trapping her in actuality. But after four weeks regularly being a male who sought relief by becoming someone else’s property but he was no closer to his mark. From the little piece on information he had extracted from a man, who had caught the contessa’s attention in the past, he knew that the Queen rarely joined the public session and often requested a private booth for her session. Then if one was lucky enough to hold her attention, she would extend the invitation to her villa where her dungeon was. The invitation would not be rejected and those invited had no choice to say no. But here was Napoleon, he had served several women and received lots of invitation of private session but none from the Queen.  
  
Napoleon sighed and his mind started to wander, evaluating his strategy and tried to come up with a new one. They were already short in time and now Gaby and Illy had come to Venice, they were now waiting for his cue which had almost expired. Illya from the last contact they had, seemed agitated that his cover had stretched too long. Gaby was fine and was enjoying Venice greatly. She had told that Waverly seemed not worried and told her to tell him to be careful and not to rush.  
  
Napoleon now was in the club’s changing room as per the club’s policy that all outsiders, non member personnel were forbidden to bring anything into the club, including the clothes. So too bad for Illya who still in the habit to bug his clothes and his shoes and a bit relief for him to know that his session would not be recorded and passed along to Illya or Gaby.  
  
Napoleon methodically stripped naked, folded his casual shirt, pants, undershirt, underwear, socks into a neat pile then lastly his shoes. He walked to the reception area and gave his clothes to the masked girl. She accepted the clothes silently and gave him a simple navy cotton robe and a black leather collar to him in exchange. He gracefully looped the collar around his neck and buckled it fitly snug around his neck then he slipped into the robe. He was barefoot on the carpeted floor. Finished, he nodded his thanks to the girl then he walked through the curtain which led to the darkened hallway, the inner belly of the club.  
  
Before Napoleon could reach the inner sanctum of the club, his walk was interrupted by another masked girl. He bowed his head low in deference. The girl nodded in satisfaction and gestured him to follow her. He followed her silently exactly two steps behind and kept his posture submissive.  
  
They stopped in front of a maroon velvet curtain. Napoleon was familiar with this part. It was a private booth reserved for a private session. Usually any requests of private session would be pass by the receptionist. This sudden invitation without any reservation mean that the patron requested his time was not any regular patron. He felt a rush of adrenaline as he hoped whoever had invited him was the Queen. He exhaled softly and corrected his posture, loosening his tension. The girl carefully slide the curtain open and gestured him to come closer. He took a step closer and seemingly out of nowhere, the girl held out a chain leash and clipped it on the D-ring attached to his collar. She then transferred the end of the leash to someone inside. He felt a tug on the leash so he walked pass the curtain and there it was, The Queen, Contessa Tatiana Salvatore.  
  
***  
  
Napoleon walked inside silently then as per expected, he gracefully kneeled five steps before the seat where the mistress usually sat. His position, knees shoulders width, arms clasped on the small of his back, left hand grasped on the right wrist with palm open, back straight, head was down with his chin five to seven centimeters apart from the sternum. He registered that there were another three masked females which he suspected as the contessa’s private bodyguards. They were standing perfectly still as if they were pillars. He did not dare to glance up and kept his gaze down to the carpet. His chain was dropped laxly on the floor but he knew who held the end of his leash.  
  
There was a tense silence as if the Queen was assessing him. Then there was a soft rustle of clothes and appeared on his sight, a boot, black and leather. It shone and had a pointy tip. Napoleon knew what was asked of him. He lowered himself down slowly but not too slow, keeping his arms clasped back. He kissed the offered boot with slight pressure, not enough to let the mistress felt the pressure then he proceeded to lick the leather surface and after few licks, he opened his lips to close them around the tip of the boot. He was thankful that the sole was free of grime or street dirt. He closed his eyes and used his other senses to keep him alert but not enough so he appeared tense.  
  
The scene last for almost a minute before the mistress switched to the other foot and Napoleon gave the same devotion. Then after a particular suck on the tip, the boot slipped out from the mouth and trailed down to his chin. The tip nudged uncomfortably on the space between the top of the collar and beneath his jaw. The mistress used to boot to lift his head up and he spared a quick glance of The Queen before he averted his eyes as a good sub was supposed to be.  
  
“Look at me, pet.”  
  
Napoleon gazed up. He held the stare with the beautiful contessa, unmasked, unlike other female patrons. Then he dropped the gaze.  
  
“I wish to spend some time alone with you.”  
  
The voice was low and seductive but it held a steel core and dangerous.  
  
Napoleon kept his gaze down but he nodded. Then the boot vanished from his throat. He swallowed and said, “Thank you, Mistress.”  
  
Satisfied, the Queen reclined back then Napoleon knew nothing but black.  
  
***  
  
Napoleon felt disoriented when he regained back his senses. He carefully assess of his body as he tamped down his panic. He felt his arms and legs intact, nevertheless the said arms were currently being tied by rope and he was in a kneeling in some kind of smooth surface he guessed as a platform or some sort. He was blindfolded and naked save the leather collar, the silk blindfold and the rope. He tried to move his legs but he found out that both of them were securely tied by rope. He was thankful that he was not gagged this time.  
  
“Hello, pet. So nice to know that you have joined us at last.”  
  
Napoleon heard the contessa whispered right beside him as she caressed his chest down to his abdomen. He sighed and faked a whimper, put an act to try testing the ties.  
  
The contessa chuckled and pecked his cheek.  
  
“Do not bother to struggle, pet. I will release you at once after I am satisfied.” She purred. “We are at my private villa and no one will interrupt us.”  
  
Inside, Napoleon felt quite relieved that his plan worked but it posed another problem should it go awry since he had left the club bare naked and the contessa’s goons would most likely not think of bringing his clothes. That also mean Gaby and Illya would not know where he was now, simply assumed he was still in the club because the tracker that Illya had planted on him was left behind inside the locker.  
  
Not minded by the lack verbal response from the man tied before her, the contessa continued to caress the muscle before her hand drifted upward to draw a lazy circle on his nipple.  
  
“I have seen you for weeks, pet. You might act docile and submit readily to those women. But I know it is merely an act.”  
  
With that the contessa twisted the nipple she was toying, hard, eliciting a surprised pained gasp from Napoleon. For a moment, he thought his cover was exposed and things went downhill.  
  
“But I know, you are still an unbroken stallion.” The contessa caressed his cheek gently.  
  
Napoleon breathed easily, knowing that his cover was still intact.  
  
“You are a challenge to me. Your spirit draws me like a moth to a flame. I wish to break you completely, to own you, to make you think nothing but your mistress.”  
  
Napoleon inhaled sharply. He knew he was in a very tight spot now even if the contessa did not find out his status as an U.N.C.L.E agent but the thrill and the risk of going into subspace was much bigger threat.  
  
Napoleon was not a stranger to this kind of deviant play. He was a man of worldly sin. He enjoyed sex and the pleasure derived from it. He had tried all kind of sexual plays during his years as thief and as conman. He even knew that deep down whilst he was fine with females and adored them, he craved more of adrenaline rush whenever he had sexual tryst with male partners or dominant females, the rough handling, the penetration, the helplessness and the demanding taking was a big turn on for him. Nevertheless, dominant partners had always been his indulgent. The familiarity of his body and his mind to these kind of plays had made him easy to chase after a mark with these deviances whilst still maintained an air of complete submission but not succumbing into a subspace. However, it was also his downfall should he enjoyed the play too much. Luckily enough, no one, no dominant partner had known what made him succumb fast and hard to subspace. Not until now it seemed.  
  
“Pain does not bother you, restrains amuse you and I know you are not bothered by those verbal humiliations. Such a sturdy stallion, so hard to break. A challenge worthy of my time.”  
  
The contessa now was caressing his half hard member. Playing with the length and gently fondled the balls.  
  
“It has been so boring lately in the club. No one worth of my time. Then you came.”  
  
The contessa pulled away from his length and went to caress Napoleon’s cheek fondly.  
  
“Let us play, shall we?”  
  
The contessa kissed on Napoleon’s forehead lightly and whispered, “Oh, you won’t need your safeword today, pet.”  
  
***  
  
Napoleon did not know how long time had passed. He only knew that his arms had gone numbed, his wrists were chafed by the rope by now and his legs had gone beyond numb. His face was wet. His tongue was tingling and felt heavy like a lead. He was parched and the only liquid provided for him was piss and wet pussy. He had lost count how many orgasms he had brought to the females strapped on the device like him, helpless to do anything but writhed as he continued to lick on her vulva and her clitoris gland. He was drenched by the orgasms he managed to coax from the girls and the piss from the girls as he more than once accidentally licked on the urethra. He was now glad of the blindfold even if it was wet already.  
  
The contessa was a devious one. She had ordered Napoleon to serve her slave girls orally and each time he failed to bring them to orgasm within the time limit, the girl would be whipped until she begged for mercy and came right on his face. Then after it, the platform rotated and he was onto the next girl with the same instruction. At first it was easily done at first, after few rounds, he felt like it was quite a challenge to even keep licking and giving a good oral sex for the girls.  
  
Seeing his somehow lacking performance, the contessa rewarded Napoleon with some assistance. There was a slave girl instructed to lick on his now erect length on the pace of his performance but she was not to bring him to his climax. The contessa also slipped in her long fingers into his anus, roughly prepared him then pushed in a plug, causing him to groan and faltered in his service. The contessa had slyly retracted and reinserted the plug several times, expertly played and teased his delicious spot. She pushed it deep until the bump directly pressed on his prostate and left it there. The plug which he dimly recognized as a prostate massager kept pressing on his spot every time he moved which was not much since he was tied. But the constant teasing was enough to distract him from his task which then led to the girl being punished.  
  
He was kept on edge, at the mercy of the contessa. The monotously task of pleasuring girls endlessly, the teasing unrepentant licks on his hard member and the unrelenting assault on his prostate. He could feel the vibration from the girl above him, the engorged vulva and the wet liquid that flooded him. He was reduced as a mere object, a thing for sexual gratification. He was trapped and had nowhere to go. It was a state that had made Napoleon perched precariously on the brink of his fall to the subspace.  
  
He wanted his release, craved his relief but knew the contessa dangled his climax just on the very edge of his mind’s downfall. He felt like he was crying but not knowing whether the saltiness he tasted on was his tears or the girls wetness mixed with piss. He felt rather than heard his own pleas, his whimper, his litany of begging the contessa of his relief. Napoleon felt lightheaded and he felt adrift.  
The last thing he remembered when he succumbed was the mission and dimly he heard a voice, a Russian accent English that told him to hang on.  
  
***  
  
Illya was anxious. He paced back and forth on his hotel room.  His left hands started to tick. At first he tried to calm himself by sitting on the sofa and started a game of chess. Chess usually calmed him, staring at the board and the pieces. But now playing chess was not helping. He had this urge to move, to do something, anything to burn his energy, more importantly to chase after the errant cowboy.  
  
Gaby had huffed at him. She was better in masking her agitation. She tried to placate the Russian by reminding him that Napoleon was wearing his bug.  
  
Illya knew that. He knew that Napoleon was wearing the cufflinks which he gave. He also wore the shoes which Illya had secretly bugged too. But now, all of it seemed to be wrong. His transmitter showed that Napoleon was currently still in the club he and his mark frequented. But this time the American had stayed longer than usually. Whilst he did not know what was happening behind the exclusive club but he did not like this unusual occurrence. It spelled too much of trouble and he could not do anything to help without jeopardizing the mission.  
  
Illya hated it.  
  
Gaby rang their supervisor.  
  
***  
  
“What a good pet you are.”  
  
The contessa stroke the black strands gently before she grasped on the curl tightly and pulled up. Napoleon did not fight. His body felt numb as well as his extremities. He yelped though at the sudden rough ministration.  
  
“Tell me, pet. How many orgasms have you wrought from my girls?”  
  
Napoleon whined but not answering.  
  
An impatient hard tug on his hair came from the contessa.  
  
“Answer me!”  
  
Napoleon swallowed and tried to remember the exact number. He wetted his lips and answered hoarsely in a shaky voice, “Seven.”  
  
“Very good, pet.”  
  
The contessa purred and released her grip. She let him fell onto the floor uncaringly.  
  
Napoleon laid there. He tried to regain his limbs and his scattered mind. His erection was aching, demanding yet he could not find energy to bring his hands to his cock. He needed his relief but the contessa had forbidden him from touching himself and that restraining order had been more potent than any physical restrains in this frenzied state.  
  
The contessa smiled smugly at her broken prize. She nudged the shivering body to laid on his back then she mercilessly stepped on the heavy erection, causing a sharp gasp and another mewl of pain from the man under her heels.  
  
“Look at you, all broken now.”  
  
She ground on it, eliciting another shudder of pain and twitch as the body tried to evade from the source of the pain. She chuckled at the feeble attempt. Then she stepped away.  
  
“Make yourself out, filthy pet. You have amused me enough.”  
  
The contessa had begun to walk away before she was stopped.  
  
“Mistress, please wait.”  
  
Napoleon forced his body up and crawled the short length that separated them.  
  
“Please mistress, let me serve you.”  
  
The contessa paused and looked at the man’s subservient pose. She smirked but said nothing.  
  
“Please, mistress, please, please.”  
  
Napoleon dropped low and kissed on her booted foot.  
  
The contessa snorted, “Crawl and beg me. If you are fast enough then I will let to serve me on my bed.”  
  
She then turned and resumed her walk in a long stride of her, knowing full well that the man would eagerly followed her.  
  
***  
  
Napoleon crawled.  
  
Frankly enough, he was surprised that he could still crawl that fast to catch up with the queen. But he knew the mission was far from done, even in his fevered mind. He needed access to the contessa’s private chamber. He was at the end of his wits on how to proceed from there to search of the safe where the evidence needed was stored. He also did not know how he would have the mind to crack the safe but for now he concentrated on crawling first. The pain of the numb limbs had served him a reminder of his frayed mind of the mission.  
  
So he crawled.  
  
***  
  
“It has been two hours longer than usual. We should check on him.”  
  
Gaby sighed.  
  
“I know, Illya. I do not like this situation too. Mr. Waverly said to stay put. He was dispatching another team to get surveillance on the club. Another hour then we will know what we should do.”  
  
Illya clenched his hands into fists.  
  
“If we were in Russia, another hour means death.”  
  
Gaby stood up and placed a comforting hands on the Russian’s forearms.  
  
“I know, Illya. I know. I worry about him too. But remember the mission. Solo is a trained agent. He was a soldier and CIA agent. He will be okay.”  
  
Illya sighed and stomped toward the balcony. He needed fresh air. He needed to think of the mission. He needed not to think too closely on why he felt this way. He needed to think how he would insult how an incompetent and sad cause of a spy the American was. He needed to think that it was not if but when the irritating suave man will come back to him. He needed to think to hell to Mr. Waverly’s order the next time the cowboy got this kind of mission. He needed to think there was still time to save him.  
  
Then the phone rang. Illya eavesdropped on it. He heard the word Solo, safe location, the name of the hotel and the contact he had made with U.N.C.L.E field agent then he jumped off the balcony even if he could hear Gaby’s surprised shout.  
  
***  
  
The moment Napoleon spent on the private chamber of the contessa was a bit blurred. He remembered the long crawl. He remembered the door closing. He remembered the husky voice beckoned him to crawl onto the soft bed. He remembered the wetness, groans, the sharp pull, the whimper. He remembered the long moan followed by a loud crack then a muffled thud. He remembered feeling every surfaces in the room through the soft silk scarf. He remembered the faint click on the successfully cracked safe. He remembered the other three dull thuds. He remembered tugging on the sheet. He remembered the staggering steps and the dull roar of machine as he drove away.

  
Napoleon did not remember how his mind had reminded him to leave the trail cold. He parked the stolen car with the key just somewhere far from his assigned apartment. He abandoned the car and began to walk.  
  
The night air and the cool breeze felt icy to his clammy skin. Napoleon tugged the sheet closer to his body as he concentrated on walking, right step, left step, right step, left step and so on. He shook his head and hoped that the cool breeze would wake him enough as he trekked back to the club to retrieve his belongings, no need to complicate the mission further by leaving errant bugs belonging to one Russian agent in a place where the contessa goons would easily trace back.  
  
***  
  
It was around midnight when Illya heard a heavy thump from behind Napoleon’s hotel’s door. He drew his gun as he quickly hid behind the door. He held his breath and exhaled quietly as he heard the sound of a key being inserted into the keyhole.  
  
There was a slow click. Illya tensed.  
  
The door swung open and Napoleon walked, no more like staggered inside like he was drunk. His clothes were messed, shirt left untucked, jacket slung over his shoulder, vest undone, wrist cuffs unbuttoned, shoes on his hand which were immediately thrown haphazardly near the door. He let the door closed by itself.  
  
Illya frowned at the state the usually unruffled American was in. He moved slowly as not to startle the man but too late. Before he could notify his presence, the American agent had already lunged at him. Surprised, he reacted even before he could think. He easily deflected the blow, using the momentum and the apparent clumsiness of his opponent to twist him around and pinned him on the wall, one hand grabbing both of the wrists tightly, a forearm pressed firmly in a non-choking hold on the bared throat, a thigh thrust up on between the other’s thighs.  
  
Upon the contact of the denim clad thigh at his erect cock hidden by the slacks he was wearing, Napoleon moaned. He trembled then he started to squirmed. Then suddenly the pressure on his groin was gone. He almost sobbed out loud, not knowing whether of relief or plea.  
  
“Solo!”  
  
Illya was surprised to hear the moan came from those lips. He pulled away his thigh but not loosening his grips on the other man.  
Napoleon stilled then he squinted to see the figure in front of him.  
  
“Peril?”  
  
Illya nodded and the uncharacteristically hesitant on the usually confident voice, “You okay, cowboy?”  
  
Napoleon was silent. He seemed to want to answer but he closed his lips and merely looked away. He cursed the timing of the Russian. This was obviously not the right time for anyone to see him. He knew he was ruined, he could not hide the mess he was from the aftermath of the contessa’s session. He knew he totally looked like a whore, the one that the Russian had dubbed him, a capitalist whore. He felt flush started to creep on his cheek.  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
Napoleon prided that this time his voice was even. At least he could still maintain some semblance of normalcy on the already tattered pride and hoped that the Russian agent would release him and leave him alone.  
  
Illya did not move. He traced on the man still pinned before him. He took note of the flushed cheek, the strong and pungent smell of sex, piss, sweat and something of wet leather. He immediately zeroed on the leather collar on the neck which was bared as the first three buttons was undone. There was no other marks apparent but the hot erect member which bulged around the crotch. He saw the minute shivering as time stretched and the way the shorter male seemed to unconsciously rocked his back onto the wall.  
  
Illya took a sniff before he said, “You reek.”  
  
The obvious flinch which followed his comment was unexpected. It had twisted Illya’s gut in uneasiness. For once he kicked himself internally for being too upfront when communicating in English. He felt the body on his hold was tensing, preparing for fight or flight instinct. He slowly released his hold but did not move back.  
  
Napoleon felt as if being slapped hard by an unknown blow from his Russian’s partner comment. He knew what he looked like. But it was not his fault. He had originally planned to hide alone in his solitude of his lodging, gathered his mind and his pride before he reported back to his team. He did not ask the Russian come over and insulted him on his already bruised dignity.  
  
“Go away, Peril.”  
  
Illy clenched his hand hard on his stupidity when he heard the slightly tired but offended tone. But he did not budge.  
  
“No. You need help.”  
  
Napoleon bristled and he looked up to glare at his taller companion. He seldom felt anger but right now he was not in the mood to act suave or nonchalant.  
  
Illya shook his head. “No. Not leaving you alone, cowboy.” With that the Russian took one step closer then in a split second there was another body cradled close to his chest.  
  
Napoleon yelped in surprise when he was swept off in one easy maneuver. He felt dizzy and he instinctively grabbed on Illya’s jacket’s lapel to steady himself. He put his hands there as the taller agent walked briskly toward the bathroom.  
  
“Put me down, Kuryakin.”  
  
Illya did not falter. He instead tightened his hold around the shorter agent, as if afraid he would escape from his grip and once again he failed him.  
  
“No. You are cold. You need to warm up. I will take you to the bath.”  
  
Seeing that his tactic was not working, Napoleon tried a different one.  
  
“Peril, please. Put me down. I can walk you know.”  
  
“You have walked enough on your barefoot. It is dangerous, you can hurt your feet. I will carry you. You do not need to walk.”  
His tone was final and brook not further arguments. Napoleon suddenly felt tired. He sighed and just closed his eyes to savor the close contact to the warm body of his stronger partner, letting go his facade and his wall for once.  
  
Illya glanced down at his passenger and he tried to ignore the butterflies in his stomach upon seeing the cocky man became pliant and dependent. It stoked a burst of protectiveness in him.  
  
The journey from the front door to the bathroom was a short one. Once there, Illya easily maneuvered them into the bathroom. He stopped in front the sink as he looked down on the toilet.  
  
“Hold on, cowboy.”  
  
That was the only warning Napoleon got when he suddenly deftly repositioned by the giant man so now he was facing Illya and half of his body was draped over the strong shoulder, his erection now deliciously trapped against the solid pectoral muscle.  A long arm circled tightly beneath his buttocks to prevent his fall but also had unknowingly jostled the prostate plug. The combination of the sudden assault had caused him almost moaned out loud before he quickly tamped it down to a muffled groan, biting on his lips.  
Feeling the digging erection upon his chest area and hearing the groan slipped out from his partner, Illya was mistaking the jolt of pleasure ran thrummed in Napoleon’s body as a mere discomfort. He quickly put down the toilet seat and lowered the incapacitated man down slowly.  
  
“Sit here.”  
  
As slowly as the Russian had put him down, the first hard contact of the porcelain against the edge of the plug, immediately drove it deeper into the channel and in turn pressed on the much abused prostate. It sent Napoleon choked on his own gasp and hands scrambled to grasp on the hard body before him.  
  
Hearing the surprised choked gasp from his partner had alarmed Illya.  
  
“You are hurt.”  
  
His tone was ominous. Illya felt anger raged within him. How dared they hurt Napoleon.  
  
“No...I’m...I am fine. Just, just put me down slowly.”  
  
Illya could still feel the tight desperate grasp of the American at his jacket. He did not even believe what he said. It must be hurt and as reluctant as he was to see Napoleon hurting more, he had no choice to lower the said man down since he needed his hands to tend his injured fellow spy.  
  
Napoleon braced himself now as he gingerly at on top of the toilet seat. He angled his body so that his posterior was not directly pressing the edge of the plug. Then he released his grasp on Illya’s jacket whilst looking up to the man who had bent down.  
Suddenly Napoleon realized the closeness. He was so close that he could easily see Illya’s pale eyelashes. Usually this position would be the perfect time for him to ruffle the Russian giant but right now he could not say anything but swallowed down and looked down. He should be thankful that the usually grumpy spy did not comment about his smell again.  
  
Seeing how the usual debonair male who had never short of remarks in whatever situation he was, they were in, being so silent, it was upsetting. Illya did not like it.  
  
“Wait here.”  
  
Illya released his hold and stepped back. He switched on the tap to fill the tub beside the toilet with hot water. Then a step backward then he was vanished from the bathroom.  
  
Seeing the retreating body, Napoleon sighed and slumped to his side awkwardly. He closed his eyes, feeling grateful of being alone for a respite. He let the sound of the running water lulled him as the air became humid and warming his shivering body.  
  
Illya quickly strode across the room the dining area. He grabbed the crystal bowl on the dining table. He carelessly dumped out all the fruit onto the table. He saw the glasses provided by the hotel. He hesitated one moment before he grabbed it too. Then he headed back to the bathroom.  
  
Illya stepped in and saw that Napoleon sat, leaning to his side and eyes closed. He put down the bowl beside the cabinet. He filled the glass with the tap water then he offered the glass to the sitting man.  
  
“Drink. You are dehydrated.”  
  
Napoleon opened his eyes, he stared at his partner then he took the glass. He took a sip. His tongue slipped and licked on his lips. After Illya handed him a drink, he just realized how parched he was. He took another sip.  
  
Seeing the cowboy drank, Illya went back to the sink. He put the bowl under the sink and fill it with warm water. He shrugged off his jacket and threw it outside.  
  
Napoleon had finished the water in one gulp. He put down the glass and ran his tongue across his lips.  
  
“Peril, another glass please?”  
  
He pushed the glass toward the tall agent who was now bent and checking out the cabinet below the sink.  
  
Illya straightened, turned to see his partner. He nodded and took the glass. He refilled it and gave it back. Then he turned back to the opened sink cabinet. He examined the content for a moment before he retrieved a small towel.  
  
He turned back to Napoleon and raised his eyebrow on the already empty glass.  
  
“Another?”  
  
Napoleon shook his head. “No, thank you.”  
  
Illya took the glass from Napoleon and set it down beside the sink. He took the bowl out from the sink and put it carefully on the floor near to the toilet. He rolled up his shirt sleeves then he kneeled.  
  
Seeing the tall and proud Russian agent kneeled casually before him had surprised Napoleon.  
  
“Wha–, Peril?”  
  
Illya ignored him. He wetted his hands with the warm water before he reached out to take the filthy foot. Despite the Russian’s effort to warm up his hands, Napoleon still jerked when he felt the skin contact on his right foot. His foot jerked almost automatically but Illya had easily anticipated this and stopped the movement smoothly. He carefully cradled the foot, mindful of the likely wounds and started to clean the foot from mud and debris. His fingers gently scrubbed the filth. He was bent on an awkward angle since he did not lift Napoleon’s leg.  
  
Napoleon did not know what he should do. He did not know what to feel to response with the irony of this situation. Not a long ago, few hours ago, it was him whom was on his knees and cleaning the contessa’s boots and now he glanced down. His heart twisted as he looked his usually surly and violent partner was cradling his foot tenderly, brows furrowed as he concentrated on his task, giving him the utmost attention like Napoleon was worth as much as his father’s watch.  
  
That notion had made him to bite his lips and reminded himself that this might mean nothing, it was just his hormone playing with him. He had to silence what was like a moan as he felt the callused fingers gently but firmly on his skin. The long fingers that Napoleon knew were strong, which could easily broke necks with their brutal strength but now none of it were there. They cared for his foot like he was precious.  
  
Unaware of what his partner thinking, Illya methodically felt the smooth skin with few calluses spots with his finger pads. He cleaned with the warm water then carefully brushed off the dirt then once again washed it with the warm later. Lastly, he dried the foot with the towel then carefully put it down. He moved to the next foot and repeated the process all over again.  
  
After satisfied with his task, Illya put away the bowl. He quickly washed his hand then he moved to check on the bathtub. He tested the water then he switched the tap water to the cold one so the water would not be too hot. By now the bathroom had decently warmed up. He dried his hands.  
  
“Need to get you out of that suit, Cowboy.”  
  
Napoleon opened his eyes, wondering inwardly since when he closed them. He looked up and tried to muster a smirk.  
  
“Going to strip me naked even before buy me a dinner, Peril?”  
  
His joke came out tired even if the playful tone was there. It was enough to ease Illya’s heart a bit, relieved that the Cowboy was still himself and nothing seemed injured his psyche.  
  
“Strip now. Dinner later.”  
  
Seeing that the ex-thief did not move, Illya moved to straighten his partner up.  
  
Napoleon hissed on the sudden movement and bit on his lips as again the plug was jostled. But the Russian was quick to maneuver his opened vest out of his hands. He carelessly dropped it onto the floor then he started to work on the shirt’s buttons, opening them in a quick movement. Soon, the shirt joined the vest.  
  
Now stripped half naked, Illya could easily see the marks around the wrist. It was rope burnt, tight enough but not too tight like one wanted to make the prisoners suffered. It was expertly tied not to cut on the skin. Evidently that Napoleon did not bother to struggle too much for escaping the bonds.  
  
Then the next thing that caught his eyes was the black leather collar laid against the expanse of his naked skin. The collar was simple belt with a buckle on it and a D-ring on the front. He did not know why Napoleon did not remove the collar once he was away from his target. But he had no doubt that the mark Napoleon was seducing had made a good use of the D-ring on it. His mind immediately conjured up a vision of naked, collared, leashed Napoleon on his knees with his arms bound. That had sent a shiver of arousal down to his spine and quickly Illya shook his head.  
  
“Bend down. I will unbuckle the collar.”  
  
Napoleon looked up to the tall Russian. He looked at the blue eyes, it shone brilliantly blue in the yellow tinted lighting. They were earnestly neutral with a flicker of concern; not at all liked a supposedly cold-blooded KGB agent should be.  
  
There was a pause before Napoleon bent his head forward to present his neck submissively. Looking at the bared neck, the vulnerable position that he willingly offered to Illya had made a light-headed rush of possessiveness. He wondered if Napoleon’s mind was still clouded, still seeing himself as the contessa pet boy. He did not want to know that, instead he felt a flare of jealousy sparked in him that screamed  _mineminemine_. He quickly unclasped the collar and practically tossed the vile item away before rage filled him.  
  
Once the collar was off, Napoleon suddenly felt he could breathe freely. He sighed and his body sagged in relief, feeling the adrenaline flew away from him. He was free.  
  
Not a bit hesitating, Illya deftly caught the slumping body. He embraced the trembling body.  
  
“I got you, Cowboy.”  
  
Illya did not comment on the silent sobs coming from the usually unflappable American. He did not know that to say to comfort him. He only tightened his hold on the trembling body, giving himself as the anchor he had hoped the other man had needed.  
  
***  
  
It was a moment before Napoleon collected his bearing and calmed down. He felt reluctant to leave the embrace. Who had knew the grumpy and quick to anger Russian giant gave the best hug? He felt secured for the first time in these recent weeks. He sighed and savored the moment quietly since there was no apparent rejection came from the Soviet agent either.  
  
“I need to remove your pants.”  
  
Napoleon nodded and reluctantly released himself. He took a steadying breath then whilst kept his hands on the strong forearms of the KGB agent, he stood. It was shaky but he managed to keep silent even if the plug slide off a bit, dragging the bump to graze on his spot. He had wanted to remove his hands to unbutton his pants but the Russian had been faster.  
  
Illya undo the pants then tugged it down. It scraped on the erection that caused Napoleon to slip out a groan before he cut it by biting hard on his lips. After the hard tug the pants came loose and it fell down.  
  
Illya did not surprise to see there was no underwear beneath the pants. He knew. He knew it back when he saw Napoleon the first time in these few weeks as soon as he walked into the room and when he pinned the man against the wall and felt him with his thigh. He knew enough because it had been months ever since he got the habit to observe the so-called-capitalist-thief. That time he reckoned it was for the good of his own, understanding the teammates.  
  
The cock was hard and slick with precome. It twitched a bit when Illya looked at it. He glanced at the American and he saw the flush dusted across the high cheekbone. The ex-CIA averted his eyes, gone was the polished charm readily seducing anyone, man or woman.  
  
Napoleon felt more than saw the scrutinizing gaze. He felt his cock gave a twitch right on the response of the intense look. He blushed. Embarrassed, he hoped futilely that the Russian would miss his reaction. He averted his eyes and turned his head aside while was stepping out from the puddle of his pants. He began to release his hold on Illya’s strong arms.  
  
Having none of the excuse to let the man retreated, Illya niftily swept the embarrassed man into his hands, causing the thief to squeak in surprise the second time and automatically clutched his hands on the strong chest readily available within his grasp.  
  
“Let’s get you to bath.”  
  
Illya turned and gently lowered the body to deposit the American to the filled tub before the shorter man could protest.  
Napoleon groaned blissfully as he submerged in the warm bath, feeling his skin and tense muscle relaxed by the soothing water. He wriggled a bit before he settled, leaning a bit to the side of the tub. He closed his eyes, exhaling his breath slowly, willing his tense muscles to relax.  
  
Illya, satisfied seeing his partner started to relax, turned around to scan the cabinet beside the sink shampoo. He grabbed one, the generic shampoo that came with the hotel label on it.  
  
Napoleon was relaxing and dozing when he felt a large hand came to his head. It held up the head by a firm yet gentle grip, so unlike the contessa who had gripped hair painfully. Feeling safe, he did not bother to open his eyes and leaned back to the hand which was cradling his head.  
  
The next thing he felt was a warm drizzle on his head, soaking his hair then a viscous liquid which he guessed as shampoo was poured onto his scalp. Soon fingers started to lather it and massaged his scalp. It felt good, heavenly. Napoleon could help not to moan lowly in pleasure. He sighed as the calluses roughened fingers kneaded just perfectly.  
  
Illya did not know if the cowboy realized that he was enthusiastically voicing out his pleasure. The lewd groans, breathless moans and relieved sighs did nothing but made send shivers of arousal to Illya’s groin.  
  
He could easily imagine how they tangled each other and it was Illya who made Napoleon gasped out in pleasure, skin rubbed against skin, hot and sweaty with the air heavy in musk and sex. He knew Napoleon had never questioned about sex, no matter the gender but Illya was a more conservative one. He knew the benefits of casual sex and had experience with them but he never wished Napoleon to be just another nameless, faceless sex partner. He wanted it to mean something to him, to them.  
  
Illya chided himself and gritted his teeth to stop his thought. It would not help to have an arousal when he was just helping his partner. He quickly finished off his task and rinsed his hands.  
  
“Close your eyes.”  
  
Napoleon hummed and complied. Then there were fingers on his face, quickly and carefully lather the soap. He started from his forehead, the bridge of the nose, fingers sliding quick on his cheekbones down to his jaws then soaped then lastly was the light brush over his eye lids and around the eyes. Soon the fingers retreated and came back with drizzle of warm water. One hand delicately worked to cleanse all the soap from the face, lightly rubbed the eyes, the cheekbones and his lips. After a moment, it moved to wash out all the shampoo.  
  
Satisfied that he had washed all the remnant of sex that lingered. Illya nodded silently in his approval. He liked now that the cowboy smelt clean, fresh, a bit sweet with the flower scented shampoo and soap he had used on him. It suited him.  
  
Napoleon sighed, feeling even better after his Russian partner cleaned him up. He just wanted to thank the man, before he squeaked in surprise. Hands now trailed from his neck down to his shoulder and his chest.  
  
“Illya!” Alarmed, Napoleon shot forward, body no longer leaning back to the tub.  
  
“Stay still. I am cleaning.” Illya lathered up the chest and if he innocently bumped against the hard pebble of Napoleon’s nubs, no one would blame him. One needed to be meticulous right. It was normal.  
  
“I can wash myself, just fine.” Napoleon stifled his gasps as the thumb oh so gullibly rubbed over his nipple. It was quick and methodical but soon the other nipple was treated the same way and thankfully the hands decided to leave them and moved to the next spot.  
  
It was then Napoleon realized that this was dangerous. He quickly grabbed the Russian’s wrist to stop him from wandering even lower.  
  
Undeterred, Illya just shrugged and continued to lather the soap all over the abdomen. A side brush on the defined abdominal muscle had made Napoleon to gasp out loud. It seemed that he was ticklish and Illya had just discovered the right spot. Filling in this little information for later date, he moved again and this time it made Napoleon sucked air out from his stomach, leaving them quivered. He moved lower. He knew what he was doing.  
  
The water was clear, only few suds floating but they did not obscure the still hard cock nestled between the thin patch of black hair. It still stood proudly erect.  
  
Illya retrieved his hand back.  
  
Napoleon sighed, relieved, thinking that Illya finally relented.  
  
Illya made a thorough work on the expanse of muscled back that presented nicely to him. He put the soap all other the broad shoulders, massaging the back of the neck; feeling mixed up with the horrified feeling of how easily he could snap the fragile neck and awed by the trust he was granted. He moved down the back, to the spine, the small of his back then he plunged downward to the cleft between the buttocks.  
  
Napoleon jolted out and he quickly scrambled to escape from his partner ministration, only to be found he was trapped between the strong arms. He was caged by the edge of the tub, the solid bulk of the Russian as he towered against Napoleon who sat leaning to the rim. An arm was quick to block his body from lurching forward and there was another arm which positioned on his back and now was brushing over the plug.  
  
Napoleon shivered.  
  
“Illya, let me go.” Napoleon pleaded.  
  
“No.”  
  
Illya was rubbing the soap down to his ass and he slipped his hands on between the pert globes.  
  
“There is a plug, yes. This made you uncomfortable. I need to remove it.”  
  
“I can remove it myself.” Napoleon stiffened. He leaned forward to the solid chest as if to get away from the probing fingers. Not that the fingers did nothing but wringing delicious shock to his nerve.  
  
“You did not remove it when you are finished with the contessa. You cannot remove it yourself, yes?”  
  
Napoleon closed his eyes. This was not the conversation he wanted to have with his Red Peril. He did not think this was the best work ethic. He also did not wish for the Russian’s pity or offended the Russian sensibility. Knowing that the Russian had known about the plug was enough embarrassment for him.  
  
There was a pointed silence and for a moment everything was hung still.  
  
Napoleon blushed, defeated he admitted his shame slowly, “The contessa did not say I can remove it.”  
  
Illya sighed. He really wanted to kiss the stupid cowboy for once but he knew there would be a lot of time for that later. Now there was a more pressing matter to attend, which was to divest the contessa out of Napoleon’s mind. Russians loved bitterly and possessively. Illya did too. He did not like competition and he did not like his mate to think of anyone other than him, him and him, never mind that both Napoleon and he was not in any kind of relationship, yet.  
  
“Then I will remove it for you. You have been хороший мальчик. I will take care of you.”  
  
Napoleon’s mind spun. He really was not dreaming right now, was he? Did he imagine that Peril had just called him as a good boy? Did he really imply what Napoleon was thinking? The sureality of this scene had made Napoleon’s control and façade spiraled down. So much for lying to the Russian and maintaining his calm.  
  
“One word, cowboy. And I will stop.”  
  
It was said quietly but resolutely. Napoleon glanced up and he met the steady gaze of the ex-KGB agent.  
  
He, then, realized that the ex-KGB agent was waiting for his consent. That simple act was the one that left him almost out of his breath. It made his heart constricted. Suddenly he just felt tired. He wanted to be weak this time, to be protected instead of protecting. He wanted to jump head first to the strong arms who would hold him up and support him. So Napoleon stopped resisting and let himself fall.  
  
“Yes, please, Peril.”  
  
Still staring into the grey blue eyes of the American, Illya caressed the cheekbone softly.  
  
“Illya. I am Illya.”  
  
Then he captured the willing lips before him.  
  
***  
  
Like a storm during winter, brutal and violent, the kiss with Illya was a force like his strength, his bullheadedness of determination. It was conquering and breath-stealing. He pressed hard and did not hesitate when he plundered the willing lips ahead. His hand moved down to grasp on the edge of the plug. In one fast movement he jerked it out, causing Napoleon to gasp out loud, breaking the kiss which not a second later was captured and assaulted back.  
  
The kiss was dizzyingly rough. Napoleon’s moan was tamped down, swallowed eagerly by the lips locking with him. The tongue slipped in and explored every crook and nook. He scrambled for a grip as the mouth continued to devour him eagerly.  
Caught unaware, Napoleon missed the fingers that trailed back to his loose hole, being opened for hours. Until two fingers stabbed in and thrust. He cried out in surprise. He grasped on the sodden shirt.  
  
“Illya –!”  
  
Unheeding to Napoleon’s need to catch his breath, Illya continued to thrust his fingers in and out. The water slipped in, wetting the channel, some of the soap made it slippery. He cut in Napoleon’s moan by kissing him again. He thrust in his tongue at the same time his fingers thrust into the wet channel and fucked the mouth as mercilessly as he drove his fingers on fucking the prostate dead on.  
  
Napoleon sobbed into the kiss. He let the Russian to dominate him completely. He did not protest when the Russian had grabbed his wrists and guided him to his neck. Quickly, he clutched tightly on the strong neck, anchoring himself against the relentless charge.  
Illya’s hand moved down and he grabbed on the hard member. He broke the kiss to hear Napoleon’s sweet desperate sob.  
  
“Illya, Illya.”  
  
The end of his voice hitched higher as Illya squeezed the member hard in time as he stabbed right on the spot inside Napoleon’s channel. He then relaxed his grip on the cock and started to move. He stroke the length firmly and steadily as he fucked the puffy hole steadily. He timed the interval precisely, not too fast, not to slow, just maddeningly steady but never enough, never teasing.  
Soon enough Napoleon was wrecked. The hazy pleasure drown him and his senses. He cried openly now. Tears were leaking down, unmuffled wet sobs and the litany of Illya’s name repeated over and over  _Illya illya illya please please please Illyaillyaillyaillya_.  
  
Illya swept the head with his thumb and slipped his index into the slit. He moved his hand down to the balls. He fondled on them and giving each of them a twist and a hard tug which immediately caused his cowboy groaned.  
  
He felt his inner beast satisfied, looking at his work, the man ruined by pleasure he wrung out, yielded beautifully to his ministration, pliant on his control. He leaned in and licked a stripe of fresh tears running down on the cheek. He nuzzled on the side tenderly, inhaling the sweat and the fresh scent of the heated skin. He suckled on the skin there, leaving bruises.  
  
“так красиво, cowboy.”  
  
Illya stroke the member faster as he sensed the end came soon. He thrust his fingers deep on the prostate.  
  
“Come for me, Napoleon.”  
  
Then Illya whispered and he bit down hard on the juncture of the neck just below the jaw. He intended to leave mark there, where no collar could hide his claim upon the man.  
  
With just that, Napoleon sobbed and came.  
  
The orgasm wrung him out. Black spots danced behind his eyelids. He faintly hear a shout of Illya’s name then there was blackness.  
  
***  
  
“Mr. Kuryakin. Very nice to hear from you. I believe Mr. Solo has been taken care well?”  
  
“Yes. Of course.”  
  
“Good. Tomorrow Miss Teller will have a nice lunch with her girl friends near Vatican to deliver the package. You and Mr. Solo will have the day off.”  
  
“Thank you, Sir.”  
  
“Stay in the hotel and let him recuperate. It has been a long weeks for him and for us. The day after all three of you will fly to Switzerland.”  
  
“Yes, Sir.”  
  
“Tomorrow I will contact Mr. Solo for debrief. For now, great job, all of you.”  
  
“I believe Napoleon did all the share.”  
  
“Yes, yes. He is exceptional.”  
  
“Mr. Waverly, Sir. If I may to suggest?”  
  
“You may, Mr. Kuryakin.”  
  
“Next time we try the Russian way.”  
  
Surprisingly Waverly laughed across the line.  
  
“I will try what I can do. Mr. Kuryakin. You lot are my best agents and I foresee us to work together for our mutual goals. Is that all?”  
  
“Yes..., Sir.”  
  
“Very well, be safe and good night.”  
  
“Good night, Sir.”  
  
Illya hang up the phone.  
  
***  
  
Napoleon stirred as he heard the conversation faintly. He felt soft and fluffy surface on his back. He felt warm. He registered slowly that he must be on a bed. He did not feel naked but there was a soft cotton around him. He dimly thought that someone had helped him into his favorite pajamas. He felt the dip on the bed. He must have uttered something to alert whoever beside him.  
  
Then he felt a hand gently caressed his head then a pair of lips upon his forehead. Napoleon huffed in his amusement. He wanted to say, to protest that he was not a child to be treated like that but he reckoned the sentence came out muffled. The hand was back and now was caressing and petting earnestly.  
  
It felt good, he leaned back. Napoleon sighed contentedly.  
  
“Go back to sleep, cowboy. I am here.”  
  
He heard the low voice of a very familiar Russian-tinged English. Feeling safe and happy, Napoleon obediently closed his eyes and let the slumber lulled him. The last thing he registered was a warm body beside him, comforting him.  
  
Illya.

 

~End~  
  
***  
  
**Total:**  11,327 words  
  
**Translation (by Google Translate)**  
хороший мальчик = good boy  
так красиво = so beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I am supposed to write the morning scene but I got lazy.
> 
> 2\. This story careened out of the framework I had worked on earlier. I intended to wrote a drabble of few hundreds words. But then the plot bred by itself and it multiplied 100 times.
> 
> 3\. I like Mr. Waverly! I am a fan of Hugh Grant <3
> 
> 4\. Anyone is welcome to write a sequel of this piece. Hopefully writing the morning scene and the talk between our two boys since in this fic. I hope they will sit down, cuddle and talk about their feelings since this fic is more a pre-relationship, a bit ambiguous.
> 
> 5\. Too many loop holes, perhaps one day I will be able to write all the scenes, filling all the blanks between scene.


End file.
